This sugary town is over-the-top. I’ve visited once before, when my parents moved to Linesworth, helping them settle in - but that was in the summer. Now, it’s a few weeks before Christmas and everything about this place makes my cold-heart melt.

Well, the fact that my four-year-old daughter, Scout, thinks we set foot in a snow globe is the catalyst for the temporary, literal, change of heart. How can I not smile when she sits on Santa’s lap and asks for a pony?

I may be a jaded mountain man but I’m a father first. Wasn't the life I expected, but hell, it’s sweeter than the candy cane my little girl is licking right now.

“Papa, can we get hot cocoa? Please?”

Maybe it’s the golden ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. Maybe it’s her rosy cheeks. Maybe it’s the fact that she has me wrapped around her little finger. I don’t say no because I don’t want to say no.

I want Scout to be happy. More than happy — I want her to know that miracles can come true.

God knows she is mine.

I run a hand over my beard, wondering just when I became such a sap, but before I can get any more sentimental, she has her tiny hand placed in mine and we’re walking down Main Street toward The Three Sisters Bakery.

“Granny said this was the best place ever. She got her cimmon rolls here.”

“Cinnamon,” I say gently as we walk into the shop. It’s as Bavarian-themed as the rest of the town — only on overload. Gingerbread houses are perfectly iced and are on practically every surface, Christmas carols ring through the rafters, and red and green-aproned employees smile brightly as they place frosted gingerbread men and powdered sugar concoctions in boxes for customers.

In line, I’m so distracted by the jingling bells at the doorway, the long line of anxious shoppers, the rows and rows of sugary delights — that it takes me a moment to realize a woman is asking about my order.

I do a double take, remembering where I am and with whom. If I were at a bar, I wouldn’t be able to resist asking her out. Buying her a drink. Running my hand over the curve of her waist and cupping her heart-shaped face with my hand. Pulling her in for—

“Papa, can I have a cookie?”

I look down at Scout, remembering where I am. At a bakery with my little girl.

“So, what will it be?” the woman asks again, her voice so sweet — sugary, but not fake. And she looks more delicious than a Christmas cookie. Waiting for my answer, she’s frosted to perfection. Glossy red lips. Dark hair. A Santa’s hat on her head. A candy-striped apron over her hourglass figure.

“These ones here are my special ones. I decorated them all myself. I have a thing for sugar cookies. You have to when you live on Sugar Mountain.”

I cough into my hand, collecting myself. There is a time and place for everything and damn, I know what place I’d like to be with her.

“We’ll take two hot chocolates and two sugar cookies,” I say to Scout’s delight. She is clapping her hands and saying thank you. Adorable and polite. I somehow won the single-father lottery.

“Which ones?” the woman asks. “We have lots of choices.”

You. I think it, but don’t say it. Instead, I ask Scout which ones she likes best.

“I want the snowflake and…” she looks up at me. “Which one do you want, Papa?”

“The snow-capped mountain,” I say.

The woman behind the counter beams. “That design was my idea. I mean, we are here at the base of a beautiful mountain range, so it seemed right.”

I nod. “It does feel like Christmas.”

She hands my daughter a bag with the cookies, then holds a paper cup and a marker. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Scout.”

The woman’s eyes widen, and she looks up at me. “Like in To Kill a Mockingbird?”

I shrug. “It’s my favorite.”

She smiles softly, writing Scout’s name. “Mine too. Growing up, our family dog was named Atticus.”

If that isn’t going to give me a hard-on, I don’t know what is.

She’s cuter than any Santa’s helper I’ve ever seen, appreciates the mountains, and likes to read.

God, I wish I were at a place in life to take this woman out for more than a sleigh ride.

“And your name?” she asks me.

“Brooks.” Running a hand over my beard I realize there is some legit Christmas magic in this mountain town. I haven’t felt inclined to ask a woman out in years. None set a spark in me, and it would take that in order for my focus to be on anything but Scout. “And uh, what’s your name?”

“Noelle.” She scrunches up her nose. “Christmas is my mom’s favorite holiday.”

Just then a woman with a clipboard swings into the bakery from a backroom. “Oh, good, Noelle. I need your help.”

“What is it, Greta?”

“I have to get the kids from school and Ansel isn’t home. Anyways, can you go in the back and finish the gingerbread?”

“Of course,” Noelle says, handing off the paper cups to a barista.

“I know you have the wedding venue to deal with, so I won’t be too long.”

“No worries, I don’t need to meet with the park director at the reception lodge until later this afternoon.”

I swallow. Planning her wedding? Of course. All the good ones are always taken. Of course, that would be my luck.

Noelle turns to me before she leaves, “Nice to meet you, Scout and Brooks. But it looks like duty is calling. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Scout says with a wave as Noelle moves to the backroom. It looks like my little girl was equally enthralled.

We leave the bakery a little later after finishing our hot cocoa and treats. It may sound lame, but I kept hoping Noelle would come back into the shop, that I would get another look at her adorable face.

It’s been a long time since I felt so goddamn good — in part because Linesworth seems to have caught me in its Christmas spell — but also because Noelle made me feel like a man in my own right — not just a father. Not that it matters. She has her wedding to plan and it sure as hell isn’t ours.

When we get to my parents’ place, I help Scout out of her snow boots and parka and follow her into the cozy home my parents have retired in. It’s a small two-bedroom place, but I’m their only child, Scout their only grandchild, and so it fits us just fine for the few weeks of the year we spend here visiting.

“Papa bought me hot cocoa,” Scout announces as we enter the living room. There is a glowing fire in the fireplace, and the Christmas stockings hung on the mantel — but I immediately know something is wrong.

“What happened?” I ask, setting down my coat and gloves and moving toward my father. His foot is propped on a pillow. And he is wearing a cast.

When we left two hours ago, there wasn’t a thing wrong with him.

Mom is busting in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in Dad’s favorite mug. “Oh, Brooks, you just wouldn’t believe it,” she says with a sigh. “One second he was in the driveway about to go to his job site, the next, he was on the pavement hollering about a broken foot.”

“Oh, man,” I say, sitting down on the couch as Mom hands Dad the coffee. “I’m so sorry. You should have called. We could have come to help.”

“Oh, there was nothing to do about that, Henderson next door heard your father wailing and helped him into his truck before I could even think to call.”

“Oh, Granddad!” Scout presses her hand to her mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry. Now you can’t go sledding with me.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, not wanting my daughter to make it about herself right now. “I’ll go with you, of course.”

“I just feel terrible about the wedding arbor. Was on my way over to the site right now to build it.”

“I’m sure they understand,” I say. “It’s just a wedding.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “If you are that obtuse when it comes to women, then you’ll never get married.”

“That’s the plan,” I joke. “I don’t need a wife, I already have all the family I could ever need.”

Scout smiles up at me, crawling into my lap and she pats my beard. “But a mommy would be nice. She could make me cookies. Like the lady at the bakery.”

I swallow hard, not liking the idea of my daughter feeling like she was missing something in her life.

Mom must sense the shift in the air. She changes the topic, turning to my father. “So, Dean, ask Brooks.”

“Ask me what?”

“I was wondering if you might be able to do the arbor for me? The wedding is next week and it’s a whole to-do. The entire town is invited, and I don’t want to let the bridezilla down.”

I frown. Is this Noelle’s wedding? I cough uncomfortably, not wanting to ask anything that might draw attention to the fact that I have a hard-on for a practically married woman. “She’s a bridezilla?” I can’t quite picture that cute as pie woman getting crazed over nuptials.

“Oh, not the bride,” Mom corrects. “It’s her best friend that’s a little intense.”

“I see. In that case, of course, I can build it. Just show me what they want.”

“Oh, it’s pretty specific,” Dad jokes, reaching for a stack of papers on the side table. “This woman has her friend’s wedding planned to a T.”

I take the plans from my father and settle into the easy chair. Knowing Noelle’s off-limits can keep my focus on where it belongs. My daughter.

Not on the woman at the bakery who looks like she would know exactly how to frost my cookies.

No.

I don’t need any extra sugar in my life.

As I look at the plans for the arbor though, I can’t help but feel more than a little jealous of the man who is going to be marrying her in a few weeks’ time.